


The Thief in the Night

by cosmic_medusa



Series: We Three Kings [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 12:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18142262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: Dean finally confronts Sam about stealing from him and Cas.





	The Thief in the Night

“I got sixty dollars out of the ATM yesterday,” Cas said.

Dean deliberately didn’t look up from the paper. “And?”

“It’s gone.”

Dean knew that was coming. He’d known this _conversation_ was coming. It didn’t mean he was any more eager to have it.

“If you need cash, grab some from my wallet,” he told him. Cas crossed his arms and leaned against the kitchen doorway.

“Your wallet is empty too. And I know you had at least forty dollars in there last night.”

“So I’ll swing by the bank.”

“Dean, that’s not the point—”

“I said I’d pay for dinner anyway! I’ll reimburse you.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas said, sadly. “We _have_ to talk about this. We’re _enabling_ Sam by pretending we don’t know this is happening.”

It felt like a knife in Dean’s gut. He dropped back into the sofa an discarded the paper, suddenly exhausted. “What do you want me to do, Cas? Tell him he can’t come here?”

“You need to try and look at this objectively, not personally.”

“I’ve been to the same meetings you have! I hear what they say—environment, family, enabling! Who do you think they’re talking about?”

“Your Father. The fire. The fact you had _both_ had a traumatic childhood.”

“They're talking about parents, Cas, and damnit, _I'm_ the closest thing to one that kid ever had. So _I_ should control him, _I_ should keep him in line, _I_ should stop him from using.”

Cas  crossed the room and took a seat beside him. “Dean,” he said softly, “I need you to understand that I am not blaming you for anything. And I’m not mad about the stolen money. I’m _worried_ because it’s not like _Sam_.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you still believe this is short-term.”

“I _believe_ he can come back from this.”

“He _can_. But first, he needs _us_ to stop being afraid of what all this may mean.”

“And that is?” Dean challenged.

“He’s addicted.”

“He’s not.”

“He is, Dean.”

“C’mon, dude—Sammy? The kid’s IQ is off the charts!”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“My brother is _not_ some... _junkie_.”

“Then you’re in as much denial as he is.”

Cas’ almost otherworldly calm could be maddening at times. _Especially_ when Dean knew he was right.

“It’s nothing against his character,” he continued. “Or yours. It’s a medical problem. We can help him to fix it, but we have to acknowledge what we’re really dealing with.”

“He’s not a _what_!” Dean roared, shooting up off the couch and away from Cas. “He’s not a problem or a behavior or a _statistic_! He’s my _brother_ _._ ”

“And he’s very important to me too,” Cas said with that same unwavering calm. “And if it were just a matter of his happiness, I’d give him every last dollar I had. But we have to consider what this is doing to his _health_. It’s dangerous. We don’t know what he’s using or where he’s getting it from. We don’t know who he’s spending time with.” Cas’ face softened again. “I can’t keep fighting, Dean. You know I can’t take fighting.”

Dean felt his whole body vibrating with resistance. No one knew Sammy better than he did. He doubted anyone in the _world_ knew _anyone_ better than he knew Sammy. And if it came down to Cas or Sam—

He stopped. He couldn’t go there.

Dean took a deep, slow breath, and crossed back across the room, sitting warily beside his partner. They didn’t look at one another, or speak, for a few minutes.

“This is not your fault,” Cas finally said.

“Spare me the ‘Good Will Hunting,’” Dean pleaded. “You’ve done your homework. What do we do?”

“We need to confront him, but we can’t be angry, or defensive. We need to make it clear that he is our only concern, not the money or the booze.”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “He’s still drinking?”

“The bottles we marked are largely reduced. I know for a fact he’s added water to some of them.”

“So what, you’re a chemist now?”

“Dean, _please_.”  
  
Dean steadied himself once more. The logical side of him knew Cas was right, and was only trying to help. The overprotective animal in him wanted to roar at anyone who dared question his brother's character. "I’ve talked to him, Cas. About school, about work, about smelling like a damn back-alley smoke shop.”

“You’ve put off confronting him. You keep waiting for him to move forward or to come to you. And I don’t wish to cast doubt on what worked for you in the past. But it is _not_ working anymore.” Cas’ eyes honed in on Dean’s. “If we don’t do something about this, Dean, I’m very afraid that the next middle-of-the-night call will be about Sam. And believe me, no one wants that less than me, for _both_ your sakes.”

Dean looked away. He had a sudden urge to strike or push Cas, an urge he quickly restrained.  Nothing his boyfriend said was untrue. But that didn’t mean he wanted to acknowledge it.

“Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll talk to him. Tell him what we think is going on.”

“Would you like me to be there?”

“No,” Dean snapped, and saw Cas flinch slightly before he set his jaw and looked away. “No,” he said, softer. “It’s better if it’s just me. I don’t want him to feel like we're ganging up on him.”

“It’s a family thing,” Cas mumbled, part hurt, part bitter. It was Dean’s turn to flinch. He wasn't being fair--and he wasn't the only one living through this. 

“I’m sorry," he admitted. "I’m being an ass.”

“You _are_ an ass.”

Dean leaned against him, pressing their shoulders together. “I’m sorry,” he said, softer. “You’re right, okay? I know you are. It’s just...” his voice wavered. “It’s _Sammy_.”

Cas hesitated, then reached down and laid his hand on Dean’s knee. His face was drawn, and suddenly mournful.

“I know,” he murmured, and turned his hand palm up to take Dean’s hand when he chanced laying it down over Cas’ own.

*

Sam got in three hours after he’d told them, per usual. Sam, who used to smell of soap and school and just plain _Sam_ , now smelled like smoke and incense and pot and looked at him with slightly enlarged pupils.

“Sam,” Dean said.

“I’m tired,” Sam snapped. Angry—this Sam was always angry. Or tired. Or sick.

“Dude, just...come sit down for a few minutes.”

“I _said_ I’m _tired_.”

“I _heard_ you’re _tired_. I _said_ come _sit down_.”

“I’m not a child,” Sam barked, and took off up the stairs. Dean followed.

“Then quit acting like one.”

“Yeah, nice retort, Dean. Right out of parenting 101.”

“For Christ's sake, Sam, quit acting like a stupid bitch!”

“This the part where I remind you you’re a dumb jerk?”  
  
Dean felt a stab of rage hearing their normally affectionate banter shoved maliciously in his face. He would regret it later, but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hit back.   
  
"This is the part where I say you’re turning into a damn _junkie_.”

Sam whirled on him. “I didn’t do anything but hang out tonight.”

“With who?”

“Screw you, Dean.”

“Brady, huh?”

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s a _dealer_.”   
  
"He was my roommate. He introduced me to Jess."  
  
"He's introduced you to a shitload more than girls since then."

Sam turned and stomped up the rest of the steps and down the hall to the guest room. Dean caught the door when he tried to slam it shut. “Damnit, Sammy, I’m not trying to fight here. I just want you to _talk_.”

“My name is _Sam_!” his brother nearly roared. “How about instead of _talking_ , you friggin’ _listen_ for once?”

Dean stared at his brother as he moved about the room, and suddenly Cas’ words came through full-force: his brother, his _Sammy_ , was...

“You’re high,” Dean said softly, stunned and feeling a gnawing pit of horror rise in his gut. This was more than pot or booze. This was something harder, stronger—and a billion times more dangerous.  

“Screw you, Dean.”

“What did you take?”

“Nothing.”

“What did you _take_ , Sam?”

“I didn’t _take_ anything.”

“Then what did you snort, shoot, smoke?” Sam just rolled his stupid, high eyes and began to undress. Dean felt his fear roar to rage. “Goddammit, are you that _stupid_! Or do you just have a death wish?”

“Right,” Sam snorted. “Because _you_ rotting your liver is an affirmation of life.”

Dean could feel warring factions rising inside him. The parent in him wanted to start yelling. The fighter in him wanted to slug the kid’s smarmy, stupid mouth. The big brother wanted to grab a Priest and a Crucifix and get whatever demon had taken over his smart, dork little brother _out_ and give him back the wide-eyed kid who needed, relied on, and _trusted_ him.  

“This isn’t about me—”

“It’s about your goddamn double standards! You can drink yourself sick, and that’s fine. You can bring home whoever you want, shack up with whoever you want, _that’s_ fine. But not me. I have to be your perfect little Sammy so you can point to something other than your car and say ‘see? I made that!’”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re some perfect prep-school A-lister or dropout grease-monkey like me, as long as you’re not trying to kill yourself!”

“I’m not. I know what I’m doing. I’m not a dumbass kid anymore, Dean.”

“You’re not a kid, but you’re being an ass.”

“Fuck off.”

“Sam,” Dean softened his voice. “I don’t mean any disrespect. I’ve never lost someone like you lost Jess. But this...this isn’t right. This isn’t _you_. You’re giving up, and you _can’t_. She wouldn’t want that for you.”

Sam whirled around. “Don’t you bring her into this! Don’t you _dare_. You're not talking about _her_ , you’re talking about _you_. Well, maybe I don’t want what you do either, Dean!”

“What do you want, then?”

“To be left _alone_!”

“To do _what_? Drink and drug yourself to death?”

“To make my own choices!”

That, high or not, was something Dean could understand. _Legitimately_ understand. Because, growing up, they hadn’t really had any, and the few they _had_ , Dean had made for the two of them.

Sam's freedom had been all too brief--he'd chosen his college. His girlfriend. His job. Dean had had no problem with that: he had, in fact, been proud to see Sam adjust so comfortably to the normal life he'd always wanted and they'd never had.   
  
He'd kept quiet when Sam chose to leave school to work. When he drank too much. Even when he suspected his brother might be smoking pot.   
  
But Sam did _not_ get to choose to kill himself. Not as long as Dean had a beating heart in his body.

“Sammy,” Dean said slowly, than quickly corrected “ _Sam._ I hear you, man, but—you’re _hurting_ yourself.”

“I know what I’m doing, Dean. I know _more_ than you about this. I know how to let it not go too far.”

Dean took a moment. Sam wasn’t _Sam_ , and he wasn’t going to get through to him this way. “Okay, then. You do. Fine. What about the fact that Cas and I are missing a hundred bucks? That’s fine too?”

Sam shrugged. “Spend less at lunch.”

“You _took_ it, Sam.”

“So _prove_ it, Dean.”

Dean couldn’t even bring himself to shake his head. He stared at his brother, dropping his hoodie and changing into a fresh t-shirt—washed by Cas and folded by Dean—and thought _I don’t know this guy. I don’t_ _ **like**_ _this guy._

And then Cas’ voice rang in his head: _your brother is sick. Your brother needs_ **_help_**.

_Your brother is not your brother when he’s high._

_The same way ** _you’re_** not the same when you’re drunk._

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Dean said slowly. “When you’re _sober._ ”

Dean turned toward the hall. Behind him, Sam flung an angry “Fine—walk away, Dean! That’s what you do best—hide from what’s _real_!”

That embroiled Dean’s rage worse than anything. He could forgive money lost, forgive drugs used, forgive property stolen—but abandoning Sam? He whirled on his brother.

“No,” Dean said furiously. “You listen—whatever you want to put on me, fine. I can take it. But you are not ever going to get to say that I gave up on you. You hear me? Because I _won’t_.”

“Saint Dean,” Sam said sarcastically. "Patron Saint of Lost Brothers."

“You’re not lost. I will _not_ lose you.”

“Well, that’s not your decision to make anymore, is it?”

Dean felt a sudden crushing wave of _exhaustion_ rush through him. He’d had fights with his Dad, fights with his teachers, fights with the principal, fights with Cas, and now fights with Sam. He couldn’t fight anymore. He didn’t _want_ to fight anymore.

“I’m going to bed,” Sam announced, daring his brother to challenge him. Dean turned and left his own guestroom like he would a stranger’s apartment—without flinching when the door slammed shut.

 

*

Dean drove to work off steam. He let the Impala take the lead, coaxing him up one lane and down another, out onto a highway, off a strange exit, through unexplored streets, and back again. It wasn’t his internal compass that lead—it was her. Cas and Sam, for all he loved them, wouldn’t ever get it. Only Bobby—and maybe Jake—and other car addicts would.

He thought about going to a bar but didn’t feel up to the crowds. And, though Cas had been near saintly in his quiet, he knew his partner was secretly wishing he’d drink less, even if he _was_ far dryer than he’d been the past few months.

Dean had built his life around caring for Sam. And with Sam spiraling downward into the same cycle of destruction that had taken their father, and Dean seemingly powerless to stop it, Dean felt all his principals, his very _foundation_ shattering deep down in his gut.   
  
_His_ Sam could be incessant in his questions, and pushy, and whiny and picky and _maddeningly_ stubborn, but he was also good and solid and kind and willing to look for the good in people, the good in _life_ , and it was this optimism and grim determination that had carried Dean through his own dark periods, even when he’d been reluctant to share them with his kid brother.

 _This_ Sam was a stranger. An angry, belligerent, deceitful, stranger. Gone were the great grades, the dreams of stability, the nagging and fussing over Dean’s well-being. This new Sam was driven to one thing and one thing only—self-obliteration. And damn anyone who stood in his way.   
  
He hated that, even in death, John Winchester still had an iron fist binding both his sons to his failures. 

Dean suddenly wish his father was alive so he could go to him and beat him with all the savagery he’d laid on his children for daring to question their Father’s own determination to end himself tragically. Because for all the hold he had had on Dean, it was Sam he seemed set on dragging down into the grave with him.

Dean found himself outside of Cas’ hospital, but couldn’t bring himself to go in. He wasn’t so self-absorbed that he didn’t recognize that a lot of other people were relying on Cas besides him. 

That aside—Cas was _good_ to him. Far better than he deserved. He’d been the one who’d gently suggested they attend an Al-Anon meeting, which Dean had refused until Cas had admitted _he’d_ like to go, but would prefer not to try on his own. And they had helped. He’d gotten a little more perspective and clarity on what was happening with Sam: and, most importantly, what had happened with their father. Dean didn’t think he’d ever be able to untangle or understand John Winchester, but he’d be damned if that meant he’d give up unraveling his little brother.   
  
But Cas didn’t _have_ to stay with him. He had the means and resources to take off whenever he wanted. A smart, rich, attractive doctor would be a wild commodity on the singles scene. A drunken, belligerent, screwed-in-the-head mechanic would not.  

He slouched forward onto the steering wheel and rubbed his temples. A long, long time ago, he’d sworn to look after Sam, regardless of his own needs. Somehow, that was no longer working. Sam needed, and Dean didn’t know how to fill that need. Didn’t even know if his _brother_ even knew what it was he was after. But he knew one thing, and that was that he couldn’t give up. Not if he wanted there to _be_ a Sammy.

*

Sam was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of whiskey in front of him.

Sammy didn’t like whiskey. Sammy didn’t even really like _drinking_.

_Old Sammy._

_New **Sam**._

Dean swallowed, hard. “Hey,” he said softly, an olive branch. Sam didn’t answer. “You want a beer?”

His kid brother eyed him suspiciously. His pupils were normal. His high was gone. Now he saw the slumped shoulders, the head resting on the hand, the inevitable depression that followed both the high and had trailed along after Sam since Jessica’s death.

Dean crossed the room and pulled two beers from the fridge, popping the tops on both and offering it. Sam hesitated before reaching out and accepting.

“I don’t know how you drink this,” he mumbled, pushing the whiskey glass aside.

“It’s a gift.”

Dean leaned his bottleneck forward in their usual “cheers” gesture. Sam hesitated only briefly before clinking back.

They drank in silence for a few minutes. Then Sam said, eyes on the table, “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“Me neither.”

“I hate fighting with you. We don’t...we _don’t_. Not like this.”

“I’m not trying to fight,” Dean murmured. Sam set his jaw.

“I’ll pay you back. You and Cas. I’ll go back to work.”

“Sam...”

“I can pay rent again.”

“Dude, that’s not the _point_. I’d live in a damn _tent_ if it meant that you were okay. You hear me? It’s not what you’re doing. It’s—”

Sam’s eyes fixed on him darkly. “ _What_?” he murmured.

“What...if you’re not _careful_...you could _become_.”

“I’m careful.”

“Sam—”

“I know you don’t understand, and I know you’re looking out for me. But I’m not going to let it go too far.”

“It’s _already_ gone too far.”

Sam’s face fell. Dean pushed his chair forward.

“I’m not mad,” the elder Winchester pleaded. “I swear, Sammy. I’m not. Cas either. We can fix this, no problem. Cas knows people—”

“Shrinks.”

“Doctors.”

“You want me to go away.”

“No.”

“You want to lock me up in some ward with a bunch of criminals, and you expect me to be alright with that?”

“I want you to be _safe_. And _healthy_. We can do this, the three of us. You don’t have to go full-time. We can go and meet with these guys and just see how we like it. Or we can leave Cas out of it. It’ll be you and me. Just hear what they think.”

“But Cas would pay.”

“He offered.”

Sam shook his head. “No. I’m not taking his charity. I don’t _need_ it.”

“We need _something_ to change here, Sammy. _You_ need something to change. And I...I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Sam looked at him—really looked at him, with his damp, puppy-dog eyes, for the first time in _weeks._ “I’m fine. I know you don’t get it, but it just _helps_ , Dean. I’m sorry it got out of hand tonight, but... I need it right now.”

“There will be a point when it will tell you that _you_ need _it_ , Sammy,” Dean said slowly. “And I don’t think you’ll know the difference.”

“It _helps_ ,” Sam pleaded.

“ _We_ can help.”

“No. I—” Sam’s voice wavered. “It...holds it...back.”

“Holds _what_ back?”

Sam made a weak, useless gesture with his hands. “ _Everything_.”

Dean leaned even further forward and stared until Sam glanced at him. “There’s nothing you could tell me that would make me leave you.”

“I know,” Sam muttered.

“Do you?”

“Sure.”

“I think _you_ think I’m saying that because I don’t know what’s really happening inside your giant head. And you’re right, I don’t. But that doesn’t stop me. You’re my _blood_.”

He said it in a way that made it all too clear, to both of them, that that meant more than their genetic connection. They’d sustained one another for so many years, in ways people could never understand. It seemed impossible that they had let their relationship deteriorate. But here they sat, with secrets and hurts and even _theft_ between them, and nothing to do but wish it away.

Sam finally swallowed, hard, and truly met his brother’s gaze for the first time in weeks.   
  
“This isn’t easy for me either,” he managed, shakily.

Dean nodded. They finished their beers, cleared the table, and went up to bed as they had so many nights previous—in silence.

 

 


End file.
